


Promotion Day

by Davechicken



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: M/M, NO rape, Using the tag to keep people safe, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9203144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Cassian will do anything for the Rebellion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is not happy fluffy.  
> 2\. There are 2 tiny references in this story, one to canon, one to EU/Legends. Feel free to guess!

The man he’s seen a few times before, and his intel has held out every time. Never enough to get himself busted, but enough to be useful for the Rebellion. As trustworthy as any informant gets, and Cassian is okay with that.

Today, though, the young Imperial officer is wearing new code cylinders and rank badges. He’s clearly just been promoted, and the neat sideburns that flank his face do nothing to hide the smugness on his lips. 

The name he’s given is a false one, he’s sure. Vyyk. They’re never too imaginative, Imperial types, but then a showy name does get you noticed anyway. Cassian learned the hard way how to keep his various aliases under control. 

Lieutenant Vyyk sits in the darkest corner of the cantina, of course. He probably shouldn’t be here in his uniform, but Imps do that all the time. They swan around like they own the place… okay. So maybe they _do_ own the place, but that’s not going to be forever. Cassian ducks into the booth with him, across the table, hand resting on his holstered blaster.

“New uniform.”  


“I’m going places.”  


“So I see.”  


“The price for my information has gone up.”  


Of _course_. Cassian wonders if the man just stole the uniform to barter for a higher bribe, but he’ll never know for sure. He’s got some discretionary funds (who doesn’t), but he can’t go too far over budget. They aren’t _made_ of money.

“Name it.”  


“So quick to get to business?”  


“That is why we are here,” he replies, clipped and a little sullen.   


“Very well.”   


That’s when Cassian lets himself notice. The eyes fall on his lips, and drag down over his throat, and back to his eyes. Cassian’s seen that look before, and he knows full well what the other man is asking for. 

Hells, he’ll have done the same thing himself, before now: soliciting someone’s mouth. Difference being, with him it wasn’t the start of an opening negotiation gambit, it was with someone he knew could walk away and say no.

Technically, Cassian could walk away and say no. He could insist on only credits, or favours, or mutual intelligence. He could demand reckonable currency only. It might work, or it might sour the relationship permanently.

He could - of course - also _force_ the issue. Apply pressure. Thumbscrews. He’s not above cracking a man’s skull to get to the juicy secrets inside, but that would then put an end to future leaks. He’s not at the stage, yet, where that’s necessary. 

But he has made the effort to come this far.

Briefly, Cassian wonders if this will lead to escalations. There’s a mighty gulf between something slightly seedy, and something utterly degrading and which he’s not sure he’s even capable of doing. Maybe he tries to hold it at this level - declare this a one-off for his promotion big-headedness - and resort to violence the next time?

Yeah. Okay.

“That all?” he asks, cocking his head and offering a view of his jaw and throat a little better.   


“And our fee.”  


“Here?”  


That’s more than ‘Vyyk’ was bargaining for, shit. Oh well. Cassian can’t back down now, and the sooner he gets this over with the better. He drops to his knees and crawls under the booth’s table, grabbing uniformed knees and shoving them apart.

This _is_ what he wanted, right? 

Vyyk hisses through his teeth, and grabs at the fur around Cassian’s coat. He doesn’t like that, so he whacks his hand away. “No touching.”

“You don’t–”  


“I said: _no touching_ ,” Cassian snarls up at him, and grabs the man’s nuts through his slacks.   


“You are a greedy little cockslut, then, aren’t you?”  


_Keep telling yourself that_ , Cassian thinks inside the privacy of his own skull. He keeps thinking: for the Resistance. For Freedom. For… all those things he believes in. If he’s fine with murdering a man, he should be fine with sucking a little dick for the greater good. Not like he has to enjoy it. Just… lick. Right?

He’s fooled around a bit, yeah, but it’s all been hands. Not mouth. Still, he’s had plenty of blowjobs and the principle is mostly lick and suck, so he shoves the man’s fly down and pulls his half-flaccid cock out. It’s _really_ not attractive, half-soft like that, so he pumps his fist over it to tug it harder. 

“Pathetic Rebel scum. You’d probably pay _me_ to suck my dick, wouldn’t you?”  


_Don’t flatter yourself_. He’s hardly anything special, and Cassian is not so much into kneeling on sticky floors and licking unfamiliar genitals. They’re not objectionable, but they’re not something he craves, or finds interesting.

Instead, he works his fist in a twisting motion, then starts to lick underneath the head. The shaft is silky-smooth under his fingers, but he just blanks out the part of his body that can feel and licks wetter, harder.

It’s easy if you divorce yourself from your body, and Cassian does just that. He opens his mouth and starts to slurp a little, when hands grab at his hair and shove him down.

The intrusion into his throat has his gag reflex kick off, and he slaps at knees and the seat as he tries to pull back. He’s _choking_ , and his eyes are streaming, and his nose and mouth are wet and gross and the salty taste and thick intrusion are both incredibly insulting. He pinches the space around a kneecap, feeling the kick in response and using it to pull back and spit the mouthful of saliva to the ground.

“I said _no_.”  


A backhand across the jaw - oh fuck does Cassian ever feel the handgrip on his blaster - and Vyyk sneers down. “If you want the intelligence, you do as I say.”

“If you want your cock to remain attached, you do as _I_ say,” he snaps back up at him, glowering from under his brow-ridge.  


“Feisty little bitch, aren’t you?”  


Yep. This is when he slides his thumb over the primer, and pushes the muzzle into the gap between his balls. “Yes. I am.”

Before Vyyk can argue, Cassian grabs his dick by the base and strokes it again, sickly pleased to note he’s not gone soft with the threat. Sick fuck. Probably touch himself to thoughts of this, later.

(And if Cassian is also finding some slight thrill of desire at this… it’s just… primitive, hindbrain thinking. Right.)

He wraps his lips around the head again and starts to bob up and down. The Imp grabs his shoulders, but doesn’t force him on. Cassian decides to allow it for the moment, with a threatening shove of the blaster. It helps ground him as he starts to move faster, and he can feel the climax building between his lips. 

“Wanna… come on your face,” the man nearly begs.  


He’s going to stick with this, isn’t he? Next time. He’s not going to ask for anything else, because this is his fantasy. Cassian can deal with that. He’s sucked cock once, he’ll suck cock again. He’ll need to make doubly sure he’s up on all his shots, but actually a facial might be better than swallowing. 

Cassian grunts, and starts to slide the blaster between his thighs, rubbing harshly. He sits back on his haunches, keeping the blaster there as Vyyk’s hands move to finish himself off. He keeps his eyes shut for this, and lets the splurges land messily over his face. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A strange… no. He’s not turned on, he… isn’t. Cassian waits for the orgasm to finish spending over his face, and then wipes the worst of it off with his hand. Scccchhhhhlllllick. Splodge. He flicks the pearly cream from his hand, and then finds a cleaner patch of his sleeve to wipe the rest off. He crawls back to his side of the booth, then clambers to his feet (ignoring his own, confused erection). The blaster is reholstered, and he holds a hand out for the intel. 

“…uh… yeah. It’s… all there.” The officer pulls out a record disc, sliding it over the table.   


“I will put it to good use,” Cassian says, and slips it into his inner pocket. He’s up, and almost at the door when the call comes:  


“But the payment?”  


Because he hasn’t left a single credit.

“You got a bargain, what you gave me was not enough for what I gave you. Next time, bring me double the intel, and I will let you have the tip this time. For your promotion. Consider it a one-off bonus.”  


Cassian can feel the hunger following him out as he swaggers back to his ship. He needs to wash his mouth out, and then make his report. 


End file.
